The Stag and the Dragon
by Samyo
Summary: King's Landing was allowed to fall. It was a well-orchestrated distraction and motivation, but even the best laid plans were not without fault; the so-called King may have escaped, but his Queen and heirs became my prisoners. Daenerys POV. Sansa/Stannis. AU fic.


Disclaimer: If I owned it, would I really be publishing on this site?

Author's Note: This is an AU fic. My universe, my rules.

* * *

I set my eyes on the iron throne; I still don't know what I was expecting. Outside there was death and screaming, clouds of smoke and the stench of sulfur. This was not how I was suppose to take my throne, my kingdom, my birthright. The people do not love me, they fear me; they tell me I am even madder than my father.

King's Landing was allowed to fall. It was a well-orchestrated distraction and motivation, but even the best laid plans were not without fault; the so-called King may have escaped, but his Queen and heirs became my prisoners.

I know that she was younger than myself, far younger than her King. She stayed calm as she held her wailing son, not even a year old, not even a slight awareness of the what men like his father did to me and my family. She did not cry when we told her that they would all die if Stannis did not yield. Jorah warned me about becoming familiar; it would make it harder to sling the blade when the time came. Or to order my children to light the fires.

Her words were always well-thought, well-weighed; she knew what was at stake. Her life, her unborn child, the heir apparent, and the girl. The girl always clung to Sansa, and Sansa would whisper that her father would come to get them soon. Because he was their King. Because he was their Lord. Because he was her father, her husband. Because it was his duty. The girl wanted to believe, and I wanted to believe that Sansa knew better.

We knew that he was gathering his armies. We knew he would do whatever it took to save his kingdom. He would sacrifice his three children if it meant that it would not fall; no one would have been surprised if he had sacrificed himself in the end. I would sacrifice the Kingdom before I'd sacrifice my dragons. I am their mother, their protector; without them I am not me.

* * *

I was not without mercy; there was an opportunity for an exchange of sorts. By luck on his part, damnation on ours, he had taken prisoners, valuable ones at that. The middleman was from the Iron Isles. A King of raiders. He first presented Stannis' terms; it proved him yielding was not an option. I would have to wear him down and make him snap. He then presented his own; apparently Stannis truly did have enemies within this realm, but yet they still refused to join me.

He had a list of names. Princess Shireen Baratheon, the girl, was the only one worth remembering. The rest were woman and children of men I saw as lowly; owners of brothels and the like. I tried not to think at the horrors they would be subjected to as they were taken to the the raider's ship. Sansa knew Shireen would die either way. Before being escorted to the docks, I swear Sansa whispered in her ear that she would always stand by him.

I had heard fractured accounts about how Stannis came about the throne; it wasn't by any means that warranted such loyalty from the girl with auburn hair. It was a political union; no man like Stannis could ever love or be loved. Most of her family had been murdered, her freedom from the marriage with the dwarf was only due to the cleansing of House Lannister from Westeros, legally and physically.

* * *

Trying to comprehend Stannis on any level was infuriating. He and his supposed vast armies were no match for my dragons; he must have known he was leading them all to certain death. I screamed at her because of it. Threatened to throw her now screaming infant from the tallest tower. I lashed at towards him and she struck me.

I wanted to kill them both but Jorah pleaded for me to regain composure before passing any sentence. Stannis was coming tomorrow under the white flag. I already knew it was nothing more for appearances sake. I ordered one of the maidens to take charge of the child, and for the first time I saw Sansa starting to break. I made a quip about her still having the child growing in her belly before sending her off to get the true prisoner's treatment.

I got no sleep that night. I watched over my dragons instead, two instead of the usual three; even in times of war I must allow my children times of leisure. Occasionally I thought I heard soft weeping being carried by the wind. Sansa, poor Sansa. Poor, naïve, stupid Sansa. If only she was the one I had to break.

They came at dawn. He came at dawn. He told me that one of my top commanders had just been killed; he was overrated and worthless in my opinion. I told him that his daughter was given to the raiders and the man didn't even blink. He didn't even inquire about Sansa and his son.

I ordered for Queen Sansa to be brought out. Her face was bruised, bleeding, her hair disheveled, her dress torn; she was too ashamed to look at her beloved husband. She stared at the ground, like a prisoner who has already accepted their fate of execution. He told me I had two days to renounce all claims and start withdrawing from Westeros forever. I told him he had one day to renounce all claims and pledge allegiance to me or else I would execute Queen Sansa at dawn; I hadn't decided what to do with the son yet.

The man didn't even blink, nor grind his teeth. All he said was the night was dark and full of terrors. I asked Jorah what he meant; I know he knew what he meant but he wouldn't let on but instead watched Stannis ride off. Sansa stayed silent, still staring at the ground. I asked her what her King had meant.

As we went back into the city she murmured that death by fire is the purest death. I told Jorah to begin preparing her pyre then.

* * *

The city became oddly quiet and lethargic as the day went on. I did not expect people to be hiding in their houses this closely to the hour of their beloved Queen's death. There were too many suspicious glances, whispers. On threat of death a merchant told me that there was talk of a coming attack; even the peasants were duped into believing that Stannis would rescue them.

As night fell, Viserion was still not back yet. A dark shadow of a feeling began to creep over me, but it was not for my missing child. There was news of Wildings now fighting for Stannis, and rumors of raiders lured by the prospect of a sanctioned sacking of King's Landing. Reluctantly, I sent out Drogon to take care of these new possible annoyances.

I asked for the maiden in charge of the child. I was told that she was by the docks for the sounds of the waters calm the babe. I imagine she also sings to it; she shouldn't get so attached. I could send them both across the sea, she could raise him as her own, but it would still always be a Baratheon.

Before I fall asleep, I hear Sansa's crying on the wind again. I think she actually truly loved him, or at least believed he truly loved her. She was carrying her second child, at least, fathered by him. In my short time time of acquaintance, I ruled out the possibility of her having lovers or anything closely resembling the sort. Poor girl, falling for the man incapable of love.

* * *

In the deadest hour of the night, as King's Landing was engrossed in an uneasy slumber, the Wildfire was brought down upon the city. Whatever it touched, it burned, melted just like dragonfire. Some of it was catapulted, and some of it originated within the city walls. Traitors and spies were amongst us. The morning's courtesies were a diversion. Well played, Stannis, well-played.

I ordered Sansa to be brought to me amidst the chaos; the maiden and child were no where to be found. As my men were being burned alive, that bitch dared to break a smile, have amusement in her eyes. She seemed to have forgotten that her own people were being burned alive also, or maybe she did. She again murmured that death by fire was the purest death.

As they ran out of Wildfire to unleash, and the flames had subsided enough, new screams and wailings and moans erupted. They were concentrated in one area, around something, something...

Stannis, the murderer. His men murdered, he murdered. Decapitated. Mutilated. Flung the head of Viserion amidst the Wildfire. Rhaegal screamed for Drogon so they could avenge my beloved Viserion's death, but Drogon did not come. I prayed that he was far away, burning Wildings and raiders and Stannis' men alive like the Wildfire had just done to mine.

I take a dagger, intent on slitting the bitch's throat. Jorah does not try to stop me. I ask her if she has any last words; even a Queen in such situations must offer this one courtesy to the accessory of her child's murderer.

You took what he loved, he took what you loved. This is how the game of thrones always ends up being played. Good queens cannot be this naïve, Lady Daenerys. Didn't Ser Jorah tell you all this?

I drag her by the hair to her pyre; I hope she loses the child before Rhaegal slowing incinerates her. I want the bitch broken by the time I'm done with her. Jorah tries to calm me, I tell him it is too late for him to cool my ambitions about the throne. That I will never return his affections. That I will see him die by my hand before I fail at my quest, before I relieve my burden of glorious purpose.

I do not know where Jorah goes. It does not matter. I do not know where my guards or maidens are. It does not matter. I hear the strangled scream of Drogon in the distance as I bind her arms. It does not matter. As morning light blesses the land and the terrors of the dark retreat, I hear a force of metal and battle cries flood into the city, even emerge from within the city. It does not matter.

* * *

They capture Rhaegal. It no longer matters. I hold the dagger against her throat. She does not look at me. She looks at him. The Lord of Light. He tells me to yield. Me, the rightful Queen, he tells me to yield. The Queen these people deserve, he tells me to yield.

He tells me they have my last dragon. I tell him he murdered the others.

You took what was mine, I took what was your. Wars are not won by clean ways.

He lowers my hand away from his wife's throat and pushes me to the side, like I was a child, not the Queen. He undoes his Queen's bindings. When he frees one arm, she instantly touches his face, his cheek. Tears run down her face. She truly loved him. He does not look at her. He forces himself not to look at her.

They took them.

They are safe.

She is sobbing now; the gravity of past events has finally broken her. He struggles to free her other hand; he has to use a knife to cut the ropes. Her hand still holds his face. Some of his men have joined him now. They restrain me. Force me to my knees. One even holds a sword to my throat; if Stannis wanted me dead, he would have done it himself.

One of them approaches Stannis; I assume he is the Hand of the King, or will be once I am dealt with. His purpose is to wisp the Queen away to safety, to see her children, to be calmed by the loyal women of her court. Stannis does not allow him.

As soon she is freed, she grabs the King, forcing him to look into her eyes. Her entire body shakes and trembles. She never thought she would see her love again, let alone touch him. He brushes the mess of her hair away from her face.

You were going to let her kill us.

Never, my Queen.

As his men escort me to what is left of the dungeons, I swear I saw the King's lower lip tremble. I swear I saw his body let out a shudder. I swear I saw him kiss her. I swear I saw him kiss the woman he loved.

* * *

I set my eyes on the Iron Throne; I still don't know what I was expecting. Outside there was the smell of death and sounds of crying, clouds of smoke and the stench of sulfur. This was not how I was suppose to lose my throne, my kingdom, my birthright. The people do not fear me, they do not feel any compassion whatsoever; they tell me I am even madder than my father.

They have broken my dragon's wings. I sit in a heap on the floor in chains before King Stannis on the Iron Throne. He grinds his teeth; Quenn Sansa holds his hand tighter, making him stop. Her manner of dress suggests she is still with child. Princess Shireen is guarded by the Lord of Winterfeld and his direwolf. The maiden entertains the little prince quietly. The children taken by the raiders look upon their own fathers with pride, knowing that their fathers were truly brave. The women are already calculating how to use their new titles and holdings to their advantage.

King's Landing was not allowed to fall. It was a well-orchestrated strike. Everything went according to plan. The King had saved his Kingdom, his heirs, his love. The people loved him, respected him.

As I am escorted away, told that I will be put on a ship a dawn, I overhear the Hand bringing up the issue of where to temporarily move the court. The Queen says it shall be moved to home. The Hand reminds her that Winterfell is too far a journey, especially for someone in her current condition.

Her reply is Dragonstone was the home she was referring to.

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